


Black, Blue, Red

by devotchka



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood, Bottom Dante, Chaotic Narrator, Consensual Kink, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Frottage, Heavy Masochism, Humiliation, Identity Issues, Introspection, M/M, Mentioned Watersports, Mentioned oral sex, Non-Linear Narrative, Painplay, Restraints, that last one's brief lol sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: Dante’s fucked up, and it’s how he loves best – doing these things he thought he could never.





	Black, Blue, Red

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know where in the storyline this would be. It’s just. It’s porn. My contribution to the fandom.

Dante feels less than calm below Vergil. He can never truly hide the rise and fall of his chest, but he’s silent and he’s as still as possible. He halfway watches, torn between nerves and morbid curiosity.

Vergil studies his body – first with his hands, and now with the flat side of a blade. It’s thin and smooth, scalpel-like, and somehow intimidating enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Already. It’s a soft sound, but it breaks the silence like gunfire.

“Are you nervous?”, Vergil asks. “We haven’t even started.”

Dante has to swallow down the ‘no’ that threatens to escape him, a stubborn refusal to show weakness that’s reflexive to him. Normally, it works for him. Vergil is the exception. He settles on an unconvincing, “I don’t know.”

Vergil just…he radiates power. A kind of power Dante feels like he could never know.

The blade brushes past his cheek, his lips, his jawline. Vergil traces along the curve of his neck, beside his racing pulse, and Dante tries to imagine all the ways he might make him suffer tonight. His cock twitches in his jeans. When the palm of Vergil’s free hand reaches under his jacket, pressing against his shoulder and pinning him down, he moans.

“Take this off.” Vergil says, pushing the fabric down past his shoulder, and Dante takes his cue, shrugging out of it and leaving it bunched up beneath him. 

His hands stray to the hem of his top next, hesitantly. “Do you want me to keep-“

“Dante. You’re still bruised from last time.”

He’s aware. From the moment Vergil first straddled his lap he’s felt the rising discomfort. He’s been sore for days now, marred with bruises underneath his clothes. In some places, the deep purples were naturally fading into brownish yellows.

Could he heal them? Absolutely; he could wipe the damage from his skin in an instant, easily. He just _doesn’t_. It’s complicated.

“I know.” he says, and he kind of likes the way Vergil’s expression falters for a second.

*

Dante didn’t know what it was like to be with another man before Vergil. He did assume, if it came down to it, that he would be a top. Business as usual. A power bottom, at least. He was used to calling the shots in bed, unashamed and hedonistic.

It’s astounding how fast Vergil turned the tables, how he makes it look effortless, like he could bend and break Dante on whims. Dante is in a place now where Vergil says, and he does. And he does _everything_. Dante has been marked, like conquered territory, with come and piss and spit. He’s gotten off to degradation and death threats. He comes hardest when he’s being hit.

He’s fucked up, and it’s how he loves best, doing these things he thought he could never.

He lets Vergil wage wars against him, leaving him damaged and exhausted, and every time it’s over he counts the bruises and welts and wipes the blood of his skin and wishes there were more.

*

Dante’s on his knees. His hands are bound together at the wrist and secured to the headboard’s metal bars, his arms outstretched in front of him. It’s absurd in that he’s sure he could break it, and that he also unquestionably knows he won’t. Somehow, it’s more demeaning this way.

The side of his face presses against the mattress, and the sheets feel too soft dragging against his skin. He opens his eyes and spares a glance down. There’s blood on his hip, deep red and trickling down his thigh, who knows from where or which cut.

Vergil’s grip on his waist feels slick with it. It smears around Dante’s skin as he fucks him. He can taste it in his mouth, too, from where he bit the inside of his lip too hard stifling his own noises. Vergil’s pace is unkind, too deep, and it aches with his hips in the air like this.

It’s probably why Vergil wanted him this way.

*

While Dante spent years picking fights – running randomly and fucking the pain away – Vergil was finding himself. Vergil was living authentically. And Dante was still hopelessly lost.

(The books he read afterward weren’t even right; they say that the Nephilim are giants or fallen angels or anything but him)

Vergil, seemingly omnipotent at times, makes Dante feel too seen. He makes him feel like maybe he can’t run on anger and quips forever. He makes him want to be better than who he is now.

He’d committed, at some point, on accepting the guidance Vergil was so willing to give. He swallowed his pride and came to him, conflicted, unsure of who he was. He said, “Tell me what to do.”

And Vergil did.

*

Dante can’t believe the sounds he makes like this, so little, so inhibited. He humiliates himself. It didn’t even take long for Vergil to pull the wit and sarcasm from their sex – weeks, maybe – and there’s something about that Dante finds _stupidly hot_.

They leave it behind in the bedroom, this wordless shift in dynamic and this weird/ugly/raw piece of him, and Dante thinks he couldn’t cope with it any other way. He wouldn’t want to live in obedience 24/7.

In daily life Dante is still the same unparalleled hunter: still sarcastic, and still just as chaotic.

But here Vergil is spreading him open, watching the way his cock slides in and out of him, filling and violating him. He’s watching Dante’s hands grasp the only nearby thing, the wrought-iron bars, squeezing hard like it might be enough to hold him together.

He says sweet things while he treats Dante so cruelly: how lovely he looks like this, how good he feels, how much he loves him, how entirely perfect he is.

*

The first time it happened, Dante hadn’t had a second thought about what they did. Not until after the fact. There’d just been too much going on – hands grabbing at everything, Dante’s and Vergil’s both, and Vergil’s mouth pressing so hard against his, over and over. Complexities like gender and relation took a quick backseat to the frantic, burning need in Dante’s head.

Vergil pulled him into his lap, and Dante rocked their hips together until the friction alone had him coming in his pants. And then Vergil’s cock was in his hand, and then it was in his mouth, and then everything was over and he was stupidly, belatedly saying, “But we’re brothers.”

Vergil didn’t try to persuade him, and he didn’t want anything less than to be wanted entirely.

There was a break in their intimacy afterwards, and Dante chose to live with the remnants – fingertip shaped brises by his hips and hickies on his collarbone that he kept to assure himself that it really happened. He wasn’t crazy, and he really would have to process this.

The longer the ache he felt for Vergil refused to die, the easier he came to see relation as just another human problem.

*

By the time Vergil comes, Dante is long gone. He’s overstimulated. His skin stings, his wrists rubbed raw, and he’s so overwhelmed by the intensity of what he’s feeling that he only halfway registers what’s happened before Vergil is gently pulling out of him.

He’s quick about untying him. Dante doesn’t know if he’ll ever really have to worry about things like nerve damage or rope injuries, but moving unconfined is relieving either way, and straightening out his legs feels _amazing_.

He stays still for a while, closing his eyes and enjoying the post-sex haze. He listens as Vergil gets up and halfway dresses, eventually coming back to bed with a blanket to drape over him. His weight settles beside him again.

There’s kindness in his eyes, a sort of concern Dante isn’t used to in a lover. “So you’re just going to bleed everywhere again, is that it?”, he asks.

Dante shrugs in response, but yes, he thinks, he is. “You weren’t complaining when you did it.”

Vergil just hums in acknowledgement.

Dante thinks he should get up, get dressed, maybe go back to his own room. They’ve been inching into this territory that makes him feel anxious – one where they aren’t just working towards a common goal or fucking.

Part of him wants to run like he’s used to, knowing that he’d hate himself if he did. Vergil could break him – any way he wanted to – over and over, and Dante would always let him. He would encourage it.

**Author's Note:**

> Ya girl finally did it, she wrote a non-2nd person POV smut fic. Progress. (please don’t tear me apart I swear I’m not normally this dark)


End file.
